


We've Still Got Time

by addicted2hugh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Smut, Growing Old Together, Help, I Will Go Down With This Ship, John Has a Beard, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mirror Sex, Never Too Old for Sexy Times, Okay maybe a little plot, Old John Fancies Old Sherlock, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sex, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, The boys are getting old, Top John Watson, Why Am I Using Explicit Tags This Time, i don't know where this came from, smut smut smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-17 15:46:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16519379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: Set in the year 2040. The boys are growing old together, but Sherlock mourns the loss of his youth. John knows just the way to make him forget.This is SMUT, guys. There's fluff and love and our boys being soft with each other, but it's basically porn with a minuscule bit of emotional plot. My last few fics were not explicit, but I guess I can avoid the sexy times only for so long. You've been warned!If you enjoy this, leave me a comment, because comments are <3!





	We've Still Got Time

**Author's Note:**

> I should probably add that Sherlock and John are twelve years apart in this universe. There are several theories as to their dates of birth, and the most common one for Sherlock is 1983, but there's no "official" year given for John - most people just assume he's Martin's age, which I've done as well.

Sherlock is looking at himself in the mirror.

He's naked, fresh out of the shower, and as he stands there in front of the sink, his skin still damp and his hair in complete disarray, he realises that he hasn't really looked at himself for a long, long time.

He's never felt the need to.

They've been so busy, what with moving to the cottage and making it a home while simultaneously working on cases, and now that they've been living here for almost half a year, things have only just begun to slow down.

He studies his face, the greying strands woven into the dark curls surrounding it, the deepening lines around his eyes and mouth. He takes in his body, or as much of it as he can see from this angle, and he can't help but mourn the loss of the smooth, lanky, almost boyish looks he used to be so proud of in the past.

The looks that John used to praise, with his mouth and with his hands, whenever he glimpsed Sherlock naked or in any random state of undress. Whenever they made love. He remembers John gripping his hips, remembers his fingertips digging into his sweaty flesh and his blue, blue eyes, dark with passion, devouring him as they moved together, and he remembers the tender (or, depending on the urgency of his need, sometimes downright  _filthy_ ) words spilling from John's lips, telling him he loved him, loved his body,  _so sexy, Sherlock, gorgeous, beautiful_.

He knows it's normal that this first, frantic desire eventually developed into something else, something calmer and deeper, and that, after a few years of being together, they slowly established more of a routine - carefully perfected, guaranteed to please and give satisfaction. And they still sleep with each other, albeit not as often as they used to. He still enjoys sex with John.

Up until now, he's never asked himself whether John still enjoys it, too. 

Whether he still finds him attractive.

He studies his torso.

He's fifty-seven. Despite never really abandoning his more or less erratic eating pattern, he's put on a bit of weight, has acquired a small belly and all in all gone softer around the edges, and when he glances down at his groin, he can see that he's not only going grey on his head.

He sighs.

He likes to make people assume otherwise, but deep inside he knows he's vain, and it bothers him. It's so dull. So  _human_.

The rational part of him is of course aware of the fact that it's pointless to worry about his age. It's not a factor that plays any role whatsoever in his and John's relationship, and it's something he can't do anything about anyway. John loves him. He loves John, whose body is, at the age of sixty-nine, not what it used to be, either, and he, Sherlock, doesn't mind at all. John is beautiful to him. They raised a daughter together. They'll be a couple till, for lack of a better phrase, death do them part.

Why does he feel so insecure all of a sudden?

It's not like his strength is waning yet. He's fit; he's still working. John is, too. But somehow he's scared that the slow, but incessant changes in his appearance might be the first signs that it's all about to start. Weakness. Decay.

Death.

His own death, and John's.

He's not very scared of dying, but he can't bear the thought of losing John – it causes him physical pain to contemplate a scenario in which John goes away and leaves him behind. He couldn't function. He couldn't  _be_.

He chides himself for getting caught up in thoughts of this kind – it's a natural process and can't be helped, and they've still got time. They're healthy, and they're together. And although his body doesn't look the way it did twenty years ago, his most potent tool and weapon is still his mind, which is still working as fast and flawlessly as ever. There's nothing to worry about.

Not yet, anyway.

The door to his left opens and John enters the bathroom, clad only in his navy dressing gown, abruptly pulling him out of his musings.

"Hey," he greets him and steps beside him, locking eyes with his reflection. "Are you finished? I need a shower too."

"Yes," Sherlock says and smiles faintly. He can tell it doesn't look convincing at all, but he can't help it. "I'm finished. Go ahead."

John doesn't move away, but frowns and puts his hand on the small of Sherlock's back. "Sherlock. What's going on in that beautiful head of yours?"

He's noticed something is off. Of course he has.

Sherlock shrugs, trying to get rid of the feeling of unease and embarrassment coiling in his muscles. "Nothing. Sentiment. Never mind."

"Oh, but I  _do_  mind…" John gets on his toes and nudges his ear with his nose, sending a warm puff of air across his skin. "Tell me."

Sherlock looks at the ceiling for a moment, then back at the mirror, avoiding John's gaze when he does so.

"Just thinking about getting older, is all," he replies, fighting to keep his tone light. "It's stupid, really."

"Nothing you do is ever stupid." When he kisses his shoulder, John's lips are warm and pliant, framed by the slightly wiry hairs of his beard. The contrast is pleasant, and Sherlock feels some of his tension dissolve. "Are you unhappy, love?"

Sherlock shakes his head.

"No," he answers truthfully. "Not really. Just… remembering the old days. When we first got together. Missing them a bit."

John sighs softly and smiles, his eyes twinkling with fond amusement.

"We used to be all over each other…" he says.

Sherlock smirks. "Yeah. You were insatiable."

John snorts against his neck, moving to hug him from behind. "You weren't complaining, I think."

"No, I wasn't," Sherlock agrees and runs his palms along John's forearms, enjoying the softness of his skin and the tickling sensation of the downy, silver-blond hairs covering it. "I--- I had to make up for lost time."

John's arms wrap themselves more tightly around his middle then and he brings his front flush against his back, bathing him in his body heat.

"You do know I still fancy you, don't you?" he mutters. "Just like back then. You're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Especially like this…" He kisses the nape of Sherlock's neck, licks him there and grazes his skin with his front teeth, which causes goose bumps to race down his back and arms. "Naked… hot… and soft… and so absolutely  _delicious_ …"

Sherlock bites his lip. His body is reacting to John's touch more readily than it has done in a while, and he allows himself to melt into his embrace and let it happen.

"Hmmm…" John hums and teases him with the tip of his tongue while his right hand makes his way down over his stomach and between his legs to cup his rapidly filling cock. "Not so soft  _here_ , I see…"

He rubs his beard against Sherlock's spine and gives him a slow, loose stroke from base to tip and back again. Sherlock's breath catches in his throat and his head falls back in pleasure, and John growls in response and gently bites the tendon standing out on the side of his bared neck, his hand tightening its grip now.

"You're so fucking gorgeous, love…" John grumbles, sending shudders through Sherlock's whole body. "God, I love your cock…" His free hand is on Sherlock's chest now, and he flicks his nipple with his thumb, turning it into a hard little nub. "Are you cold?" he whispers.

Sherlock is breathing fast, his brain already slow and lazy with lust. Against the backs of his legs, he feels that John is hardening now, too, and he presses back and into the touch to get more contact.

"No," he replies lowly, surprised at how high and young his voice sounds.

"Look at yourself," John tells him, and Sherlock obeys and inclines his head and sees himself in John's arms, his cheekbones, neck, and chest flushed pink, his penis enveloped in John's fist, his eyes heavy-lidded and almost entirely pupils.

"John," he breathes, just because he loves the word so much.

John smiles over his shoulder and slips his left hand between them to tug at the belt of his dressing gown, making it fall open and expose his nakedness underneath. Sherlock gasps when John's erection springs free and slips between his thighs from behind, its tip coming to rest against Sherlock's testicles, prodding them, hot and insistent and  _wonderful_.

"God," John moans. " _Sherlock_."

He rocks his hips and groans against Sherlock's shoulder blade, and it's so good that Sherlock has to put his palms on the solid surface of the sink in front of him to keep his balance. His elbows wobble, and he whines under his breath and pushes back, his body on auto-pilot, his fingertips slipping on the cool marble they're resting on.

" _Nghhh_ ," John forces out through clenched teeth. "I want to--- have you right here…"

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock hears himself sigh. "Please---  _yes_."

"Come on," John pants and pulls back to turn Sherlock around in his arms. "Kiss m---"

Before he's even finished the last word, Sherlock has already drawn him in and crashed their faces together, and John gasps into the space between them and tilts his head, giving Sherlock's tongue and lips free rein. Sherlock takes advantage of that immediately and licks into John's mouth, making it deft and thorough, just the way he knows he likes it. His fingers make short work of the dressing gown, pushing it off John's shoulders and down his arms, and it slithers to the floor and pools at their feet.

" _Ungh_ ," John grunts and bites Sherlock's bottom lip, pulls at it with his teeth. " _Fuck_ \--- I want you," he then mumbles into the kiss, his hands sliding up into Sherlock's hair, his hips grinding into him. " _Now_."

Sherlock nods and sucks at John's tongue when it comes within reach, and they deepen the kiss for a long, blissful moment. John tastes of tea and himself, and there's nothing Sherlock likes better. He could spend the rest of his life kissing John, and it would be perfect.

"Oil," Sherlock mutters, trying to keep kissing him through it all, and gently pushes him in the required direction. "Bath."

"Is it--- monosyllabic sentences already?" John jokes breathlessly and reaches out to grab the small bottle of almond oil from where it's sitting on the edge of the bath before turning them both around again so that Sherlock can return to his place in front of the mirror. "You… might want to hold on to something again, love," he then says and slowly breaks the kiss, and it sounds so sultry that Sherlock's cock gives a small twitch.

He complies without a word, and before he knows what's happening, John has gone down on his knees behind him to nip at his hip, then at the back of his thigh.

_Oh God._

They haven't done this for so long, but apparently John is feeling playful tonight.

"Remember when Mrs H used to complain about the noise?" John wants to know, and Sherlock has to concentrate  _very_  hard to not lose track of everything, because John's skillful, wicked hands are simultaneously rubbing his cheeks, pulling them apart, his thumbs  _so_  close to where he needs to be touched, and then his tongue is there, only the tip at first, circling his opening with slow, deliberate pressure.

"Fuck," Sherlock hisses. " _Mmhhh!_ "

John grumbles deep down in his chest, the vibrations travelling through their connection and making the sensation better still, and then the teasing turns into a deep, filthy kiss that makes Sherlock's eyes roll back in his head.

"Now we're all alone… and I can eat your sweet arse and only the bees will hear you moan…  _hmmm_ …" John rumbles, his beard scraping the sensitive skin on the inside of Sherlock's buttocks, and then he works his tongue past the tight, puckered ring of muscle and moves it in and out rhythmically, shamelessly imitating what's going to happen soon.

Sherlock laughs, but it comes out as a shaky moan.

"You're a---  _oh_ , God--- a  _dirty_  man, John Watson… And--- bees don't have ears…"

John laughs as well then, right into the kiss, and squeezes Sherlock's arse in response.

"I'm a dirty old man who's going to make you  _scream_  his name and forget your own…" he drawls and licks a long, wet stripe from Sherlock's perineum up to his tailbone. " _Mmmhhhh_ … so good, my love…"

Sherlock tries to breathe evenly, but fails. He doesn't have the words to tell John what this means to him (he's always been bad at relationship talk, and addressing bedroom issues is no exception), but the way John allows him to feel safe and challenged at the same time, the way he manages to merge banter and intimacy so lightly, so effortlessly, makes their encounters special and unique and something that belongs only to them. John sweeps him off his feet, constantly, but Sherlock knows he'll always be there to catch him in the end. No one else could ever make Sherlock feel even remotely like this; he's sure of that.

"Give me the oil," he hears John say and does so without thinking, and only when a slick, probing finger slips past his outer rim and replaces John's tongue does he snap back to reality.

"John," he says stupidly. " _Oh._ "

"Ah, God,  _yes_ , my love… soon… I want to be inside you  _so_  badly…" John murmurs this under his breath, his finger sliding inside up to the first knuckle, then up to the second. "Always so tight, so  _hot_ … my gorgeous, lovely man…"

It doesn't take him long to prepare Sherlock, not today. His whole body is yearning to be one with John, to be completed by him, and he can't wait until it's time, even though he wouldn't miss this – John's fingers inside him, moving, stretching, finding all his sensitive spots with unerring precision – for the world. He feels cared for and worshipped and _adored_ , and it's exactly what he needs to chase the demons that have been haunting him away.

"Bend over for me," John tells him after a while, getting to his feet again, and Sherlock does, using the sink for support.

John is so warm there behind him, so silky-smooth and yet rock-hard, and he closes his eyes and waits for him to come closer still.

"No, no… keep those beautiful eyes open for me…" John says lowly and runs his hands up and down Sherlock's back, slowly, soothingly. "I want to watch you… watch you  _feel_  it… feel _me_ …"

Sherlock obeys. Anything,  _anything_  for John. It's hard work to stop his lids from fluttering shut again, especially when John aligns himself with his entrance and begins to push in, but he manages, and John rewards him with a crooked, amazed grin that speaks of so many things all at once – desire, wonder, and the purest, deepest love imaginable – that it takes Sherlock's breath away.

"Mmmhhh…" John then hums and licks his lips. "Oh, you feel  _good_ …"

He doesn't stop until he's all the way inside, until his loins are pressing against Sherlock's buttocks, and they stare at each other in the mirror, drawing long, shaky breaths and groaning softly in between.

"Tell me when I hit the spot, baby…" John then says and gently slaps Sherlock's flanks before taking them in a firm grip.

His voice is like velvet and molten chocolate and  _sin_ , and Sherlock fights to keep looking at the two of them, at John's chest, which is rising and falling rapidly, and at his own face, at his slack, panting mouth, his sweaty forehead, his glassy eyes.

"Yesss…" he slurs, John's hard, hot length inside him all that he can feel, all that he can  _think_.

John pulls out almost completely, then returns and slides inside again, slowly, slowly…

… _there_.

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock breathes.

John holds himself still for a moment and hums deeply, and it sounds pleased.

"You're exquisite, love," he then whispers and begins to move back and forth with small, shallow thrusts, each and every one of them nudging into Sherlock's prostate, and Sherlock's legs begin to shake uncontrollably.

" _Oh_  God," he whimpers and holds on to the sink with all the strength he can muster.

This is so intense, much more so than it has been in a long while, and he can't believe that he's so far gone already, so  _close_. John holds on to his sides, grounding his trembling form, keeping him upright, and Sherlock is thankful, because he knows that if John let go now, he'd just slump to the floor and stay there.

"Wanna--- move to the bedroom? Lie--- down?" John asks after a particularly well-placed thrust leaves Sherlock weak-kneed and vibrating with sensation. "You're--- _God_ , you're  _shaking_  all over…"

Sherlock shakes his head, his eyes meeting John's in the mirror. Inside of him, everything is  _burning_. It hasn't felt like this for years.

"No," he replies, and there are tears in his voice, but he can't help himself. "I'm---"

He has to break off because the wave is rolling towards him now and he forgets how to speak, and all he can do is watch John watching him in return, his mouth open as if in awe, his face contorted in a grimace of lust.

"God, yes, baby… Oh God, so  _beautiful_ … Let it happen…" John murmurs, kneading Sherlock's hips and speeding up his perfect,  _perfect_  rhythm of in and out and  _in_  again, giving Sherlock wonderful, glorious pressure and friction, pushing him higher, _higher_ , and Sherlock comes, just like that.

Untouched.

He wants to call out to John when it takes him, but all that makes it out of his mouth is a garbled moan that might have been intended to be the first letters of his name. He can't tell himself, what with the blood roaring in his ears and his heart pounding so hard that he's afraid for his health for a second. He can't breathe. It's too much pleasure, too strong,  _so_ good, and the world around him goes black.

Time stretches into infinity as he falls and  _falls_ , his whole being reduced to a tiny bundle of nerves inside his body, and he loses himself in it, but he doesn't care.

"God yes, baby---  _Yeah_ , that's it…" he suddenly hears as if from far away and discovers that he's still on his feet, still propping himself up, white-knuckled, against the sink, and that he's still coming all over his own legs and the bathroom floor. "Yes," John pants. "I love you… I---  _love_   _you!_ "  

An animalistic grunt makes its way out of his throat then, and Sherlock senses him letting go before it happens and braces himself for the impact. John pounds into him hard as he reaches his peak, going so deep that pleasure almost borders on pain.

"John," Sherlock wheezes, moving his hips in counterpoint with John's to give him leverage and ignoring his legs, which are screaming at him that it's enough now. " _John_."

He loves feeling John come inside him, has always done so – nothing makes him feel more connected, more as one with his lover than the sensation of liquid heat being poured out inside his body, because it's proof of what they've just done, and proof of John wanting him, taking pleasure in him.

John moans wantonly and shudders against him in ecstasy, keeps thrusting even when he's spent himself, and Sherlock savours every second of it.

"I love you," John repeats hoarsely, and, after trembling through the aftershocks, eventually slows down and then stops moving. "Sherlock… I love you so much. You're---  _so_  beautiful like this…"

Sherlock watches as John, still catching his breath, looks down at the place where they're joined and then moves his hips in a slow, languid circle, fascination palpable in his gaze.

"Beautiful," he says again. "You're _so_ wet… feels so good, love…"

When he pulls out, Sherlock appeals to his protesting limbs to cooperate and straightens up, his joints cracking.

"Let me see," he tells John and turns around, and John puts his hands around his face and smiles up at him.

Sherlock gazes at John's penis, which is still hard and now glistening with oil and semen, and puts his fingers around it to give it a tender stroke. John shivers and moans, his eyes closing in bliss.

"My hands missed touching you this time…" Sherlock whispers and does it again, memorising the feeling, before letting go and putting his arms around the shorter man to pull him close. John puts his cheek against his chest. "I love you too, John," Sherlock mumbles into his hair. "This was so beautiful."

John chuckles lowly.

"You'll need another shower," he says tiredly. "Care to join me?"

Sherlock huffs. John is right. He can already feel the other man's release trickle out of him and run down the insides of his thighs.

"A bath, then," he answers, rubbing John's back, dipping his fingertips into the two dimples at the base of his spine. "A long, hot bath. Together."

John looks up at that, his beard twitching in a small grin. "Are you aiming for a second round? Because I really  _am_  old, you know."

Sherlock bends down for a kiss.

"We've got time, John," he says against John's lips and takes his hand in his. "We've still got time."


End file.
